


Sunward I’ve Climbed

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Alec Hardy was born with wings. They carry him through childhood, love, despair and a second chance.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller, Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller, Alec Hardy/Tess Henchard
Comments: 24
Kudos: 175





	1. Mother

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's in the rules of fandom that every author has to write a wings!au at some point. Apparently this is mine. 
> 
> Thanks to the sad Broadchurch gang for all their inspiration! Particular thanks to L who suggested this au, and to Zephalien for looking it over.

Alec Hardy had been one of the one in ten thousand babies born with wings, or at least the vestigial stubs and soft down where they would eventually develop. In that, he took after his mother, while the dark hues of his hair, eyes, and feathers came from his father. Her wings were lighter, 'dishwater blonde' she used to call it with a self deprecating laugh, and they didn't match her highlighted hair.

Neither of them had the striking red or sable black so often featured on the runways of Paris and London and Milan, but the richness of colours and patterns was more than enough to be a source of admiration or jealousy for those few people who saw. Alec's mature wings would take on shades of burnt umber, chestnut, and flecks of bronze when the sunlight caught the feathers just right; they would be compared to those of a buzzard, or a kestrel, though neither of those really did them justice.

Most people flaunted their wings, whatever the colour, but Ava Hardy always cautioned him to keep them hidden. "It's hard for people to love you for who you are when all they see is the wings. Let them get to know you first, and only show them to very special people that you know you can trust."

And when he forgot to keep them out of sight, his father would remind him, and the stinging shared pain of his mother's sadness, more than the rough cuffs to the ear, was what eventually made the lesson sink in.

As a child, Alec's wings remained small, covered in a soft delicate spray of chestnut down; tucked away under a t-shirt there was no risk of them being seen or of arousing interest as long as he stayed clothed, easy enough given Glasgow weather. On the odd occasion they took a holiday, he'd keep his t-shirt on, and his mother would blame pale Scottish skin and bright sun for his reticence.

Private swimming lessons were an expense they couldn't really afford, but it was one of the few things Ava was determined to demand of her husband, fearful of seaside waves and riptides after her own childhood near the beach. For a year Alec was dutifully taken to the local pool once a week and taught to swim, with a caution that once he had his full wings, he should always keep them well oiled to avoid them getting waterlogged. He was an obedient and serious child, and nodded solemnly at the lesson from his instructor, despite having heard it already from his mother. He loved the freedom of swimming under water, holding his breath to try and make it from one end to the other without surfacing, although he never quite managed the full length before the lessons ended.

At seven, Alec Hardy decided his father was a horrible man.

He sat on the stairs, hunched over and chewing anxiously at a fingernail as he watched his mother cower against the wall. His stomach lurched as his father wrapped his hand around her arm, and her desperate glance at him told him that the stinging sadness in his wings was mirrored in hers.

Eyes filling with tears, he scurried upstairs and burrowed under his duvet, pulling a pillow tight to his ears so he couldn't hear the awful things being said or the crashing of furniture. His wings burned, and he pressed them into the mattress to stop them from shaking.

The next morning he sat with Ava, brushing her wings with gentle hands as she cried, her despair sending empathetic aching shivers through his own miniature pair. Broken tips came away in his fingers and he made a little pile of them beside him on the bed, heaping them up until he could pick up a double handful and drop them into the bin. It was another six months before a moult would renew the damaged feathers, and the fresh growth wouldn't last long before it too was damaged.

At nine, he stood in front of her, skinny body shaking from head to toe, juvenile wings spread wide from elbow to elbow as his father shouted, whiskey breath warm on his face.

The first blow felt like a triumph. It hurt, large fist on child sized ribs, and his wings burned with her despair, but she would feel no pain from him, no sadness radiating through the strange bonds wings have with loved ones - he had no misery to share, only a fierce desire to protect, protect, protect.

It wouldn't last forever, there was only so far defiance and triumph could carry him, but the first time he protected his mother is seared into his memory.

At eleven, he moved on to secondary school, further from home. He refused to let his mum walk him to the bus stop, even on the first day, and he tried very hard to ignore the pain that tugged at his fledgeling feathers when he walked down the driveway without even giving her a wave. The ache of her sadness mostly died away by the time he'd got to his first class, and each day it hurt less and less, though he grew used to a constant low level discomfort.

When most of the other boys were growing their first facial hair and looking at girls as though they were some strange, foreign species, Alec battled with the fear of his ever growing wings being seen. He avoided PE, thanks to his mother's gift of a perpetual sick note, hated football anyway, and only took up cross country running because it meant he could slip into the changing rooms long after everyone else had left and pull on his clothes in a trembling rush, back against the wall.

His wings doubled and tripled in size over just eighteen months, the muscles in his shoulders and upper back bulking out to compensate, though he'd never be anything but slim unless he really worked at it.

As time passed he wore looser clothes, then tight vests under baggy hoodies, keeping his growing wingspan folded tight to his slim body, but eventually at fourteen he went to his mother and begged for a binder.

She cried, and his wings ached for it, but it was worth it to see himself in the mirror a week later, strong bones folded up against his shoulders and down his ribs, the long primaries tucked against the tops of his thighs. Each day he'd return home from school, strip off shirt and harness and stretch his wings out as wide as they could go, leaving the contraption in a pile of straps and velcro on his bedroom floor.

*-*-*-*-*

As the years went by, Ava grew sadder, wings prematurely streaked through with grey far sooner than she let it show in her hair. She cried more days than she didn't.

At fifteen, still skinny, still trying to stand up to his father, and still hiding his wings from the world, Alec sat with her as she sobbed into his shoulder.

Every Friday night, and some Saturdays, and some Thursdays, his father drank, and raged, and hurt her, or him, or both of them. The ache in his wings never went away, her fear and despair and eventual depression dragging at him. Each time he stood between them it was worse, and he knew it wounded her that he was in pain, an awful vicious cycle of them trying to protect each other and causing each other pain and hating themselves for it and feeding into yet more pain.

One night, his father snapped one of the fragile bones in his mother's wrist. The hospital was informed that she fell.

The next day, she held Alec close, sobbing into his hair, whispering to him as his wings burned and burned and burned. "Don't ever let someone hurt you because of who and what you are. The right person will love you for who you are, not just your wings, and they’ll love all of you."

The official verdict for her death was a tragic accident, but Alec knew the choice she had made.

He was relieved that for the first time in his life the only pain he felt was his own, and he hated himself for that relief. There was no one left to feel his sadness, and for perhaps the first time ever in his short life he let it overwhelm him.

When he finally left home it felt like being reborn, like taking flight, but he still packed the binder and kept his wings hidden.


	2. Wife

Four months into dating Tess, a pretty girl in the year below on his criminal studies course, Alec was head over heels in love. If he'd still had a mother, he would have taken Tess home to meet her. As it was, he only had one family link to offer.

They kissed goodbye on a warm spring afternoon, and Alec held her hand as she turned to go. His hand was clammy, and he fought the desperate urge to snatch it back and wipe it on his trouser leg.

"Can we go to mine tonight? I'll cook."

Tess pulled a face. "I've got coursework to do, it's supposed to be in on Friday and I've not even started it."

"Please?" He resisted saying 'I want to show you something', as that sounded dirty, and rejected 'it's important' as that sounded too desperate. Eventually he left it at 'please' and a winning smile.

"Oh, go on then. I'll bring beer!"

*-*-*-*-*

"Oh my god, they're amazing!" Tess was awestruck. "I've never been this close to any before." She stuck out a hand to run her fingers through the secondary feathers under the delicate elbow joint, and he flinched.

"Sorry - did that hurt?"

"No, 'm just not used to it."

She stroked over long feathers, and he shuddered under her touch. "Does this mean you're going to join the winged division, then?"

He snorted. "They're not proper police, just wankers in stupid uniform. I'm still going to be a detective."

"Well, yeah, but you get to go to all the big events in London! And they get paid a fortune."

It was the first of many times she'd try to persuade him to join the winged division, and the first of his many rejections.

*-*-*-*-*

Six years later, Hardy spent nine months fretting and trying desperately not to let Tess know quite how terrified he was.

When Daisy was finally born, pink and perfect and screaming and not a blemish on her tiny back, he was so relieved that he cried, smiling through his tears at this tiny perfect human they had brought into the world.

Immediately, his wings ached with his newborn daughter's sadness, until she was soothed by Tess's arms and breast.

He leapt to night feedings, the quietening of the angry static in his wings a reassurance that yes, that's what this tiny soul needed, what she wanted. When she cried, he held her close, bobbing her in his arms until she settled, and when she started toddling around their home his hands and wings were there to steady her unstable steps and, when she inevitably fell, to cushion her landing. She delighted in being read stories with all the voices, sat in his lap in the private torchlit cave formed by glossy dark wings spread overhead and tucked around them.

*-*-*-*-*

By the time he made it to Detective Inspector, Alec's wings were a thing of beauty and finally a source of pride, although Tess and Daisy were the only people to see them regularly. His CMO would see them once a year for the standard medical, but two close friends also knew of his secret and, on the rare occasions they hosted a dinner party - or at least a barbeque - he would wear them unbound, though still tucked under clothing.

His suits might be the most basic Marks & Spencer had to offer but his wings, the warm tawny brown of his hair after the long sunny days of a hot English summer, were huge and glossy, well kept and neat.

The thought of being a stereotypical smelly workaholic made him shudder, so even during a case when other things might be neglected - food, sleep - he was always conscious to shower and to brush his wings until they lay flat and silky under his hands. Tess would usually help him with the hardest to reach areas, close to his back and beneath the strong ridges. Daisy would help too, her small hands gentle on his sensitive skin, until she started secondary school and suddenly Dad wasn't cool any more.

In recent months, Tess had been too busy to help much, late nights at work keeping her preoccupied. Even when she finished on time, she was grumpy with him in the evenings, and asking her for the intimacy of preening his wings seemed like an imposition when she was working so hard. All the same, he tried to keep his wings in shape, managing well enough on his own, though he missed the shared intimacy of evenings sat in their bed, her hands on his wings and then their hands on each other.

A week before his birthday he asked for the gift of her time, an evening just the two of them. She agreed, though when they settled down to it she was quick and careless, brushing roughly enough to tug at his feathers and make him yelp. When his wings were in reasonable shape, oil neatly dispersed and feathers lying flat, he kissed her, and they had slow, gentle sex; Tess smiled and kissed him back and moaned as he touched her.

The whole time his wings throbbed, and as he lay down to sleep afterwards he thought briefly of checking on Daisy, hoping her sadness was just a passing phase.

He still wore the binder every day at work, though over the years his fear had lessened. It was more habit and convenience than anything else, and only partly to stop people from talking. He'd occasionally risk just clothing if he went in on the weekend, though he never made an official announcement, and no one seemed to notice or at least no one talked about it where he could hear.

*-*-*-*-*

When the call came in for Pippa and Lisa and he was assigned SIO, he brought in his spare binder, the expensive one he'd bought for press conferences. On the packaging it claimed it was designed for 'special events'. Events when he had to be perfect, not a hint of weakness for the press to seize on. Tight straps, heavy fabric folding his wings in against his back like a second skin. At first it hurt, but he got used to it, and he was too busy to think about the ache.

'Not to be worn for more than four hours at a time', it read, and at first he diligently only wore it in front of the press. Then for the suspect interviews. Then left it on all day, just in case of being ambushed by journalists or getting a break in the case.

After he found Pippa, throwing himself into the water in a desperate attempt to save someone who was far beyond his help, he cinched it tighter, an attempt to armour himself against failure. The press of his wings against his ribs made him feel contained and secure, a steady counterpoint to his breathing, even when the whole world felt like it was going to shit.

Eventually, he was wearing it for twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours a day; a couple of times he tumbled into bed with it still strapped on, though when he woke to his alarm after too few hours of sleep it was to a cramping agony in his wings and a threatening flutter in his chest.

When they found the pendant, he had a few glorious hours of respite from the aching soul bond, and he suddenly realised quite how much of the pain in his wings had been coming from Tess. Not just during the case but before it as well, a nagging ache that had built up without him really noticing at all, a background echo to the physical damage he was doing to himself. After the case, once it was all over, he'd spend some real time with her and get to the bottom of it.

When the pain slammed back in with a vengeance late that evening, he was suddenly bent double with the agony of it, almost falling to his knees. The binder was off, a blessed relief, and he twisted his fingers in the feathers to try and stop the burning, the pinpricks of pain as they came away in his hands barely even registering.

His first thought was Daisy. Stumbling from the kitchen, where he'd spread out sheets and sheets of files, he hauled himself up the stairs, clinging onto the bannister with a white-knuckled grip. All that effort, only to find Daisy fast asleep, sleeping peacefully.

He was distracted from his relief by his phone ringing deep in his pocket. He staggered to the top of the stairs, collapsing onto them as he accepted the call to hear Tess's trembling voice.

"Alec?"

He ground out a greeting, and she didn't seem to notice his distress.

"I need to see you. Now. Where are you?"

"Home. Case notes." Jesus his wings were agony.

"I'll be there in half an hour. I've fucked up, I'm so sorry."

He could hear the pain in her voice as clear as he could feel it in his wings. "What happened? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine, I just - I've done something really stupid."

"It's ok, it'll be ok."

The pain faded a little over the next half hour only to come back with a vengeance as the crunching of gravel announced Tess's arrival.

"What happened?"

The whole story tumbled out. The relief of finding the pendant, sending in the fingerprints, finally getting confirmation on Lee Ashworth, and then the stop at the hotel. A drink with Dave, to celebrate.

His knees were weak with the pain in his wings and the mounting fury in his gut.

"It was only half an hour, but we came back and the window was smashed in and the pendant was gone. I'm so sorry, if I'd thought..."

"Jesus, Tess! Was having a drink really so fucking important you had to leave vital evidence in the car?"

The expression on her face was enough, half hidden guilt mixed with an angry defiance. He felt his gut drop and his heart lurched in his chest.

"No. Oh no, no, tell me you weren't."

She looked away, and his wings ached and ached and ached.

"Christ. How long... No. No, we can deal with this later. We need to find that bloody pendant!"

He swayed as a fresh wave of pain radiated from scapula to wingtip.

"It's always about the fucking job with you!"

Rage felt the same as sadness, to his mindless wings, just the strength of the negative emotions that mattered. It was in his chest that it felt different, a fresh ache, a hollowness. Some cruel manifestation of her guilt and his shame and anger.

He pressed a fist to his aching ribs as she ploughed on.

"Maybe I just wanted to sleep with a normal man for once, someone who'd pay me the slightest bit of attention!"

He couldn't breathe.

"You're always so worried about Daisy and your job and your fucking wings, you never have time for me! I've been unhappy for months and all you've done is take on this stupid case! Between the paperwork and your stupid nightmares we don't even get a peaceful night in bed, never mind have sex! God, you're not even listening to me now, are you?"

The world started to fade, and he bent forward, face ashen as he grabbed futilely for the wall, fingers twisted in his shirt.

"Alec?"

The last thing he saw was Tess's pale face.

*-*-*-*-*

He blinked awake in a stark white room that smelled of disinfectant and echoed with the assorted sounds of sick human beings.

Tess's hand was warm around his own, and he slid his fingers out of her grip.

"Alec?" There was relief in her voice. He didn't want to hear it.

"Wha' happened?" His throat was dry, and he swallowed convulsively until the urge to cough was gone.

"You don't remember?" A frown creased her brow.

"Wings hurt. My chest." The words were heavy and slurred on his tongue, and he choked out a harsh laugh. "Y' were giving me a bollocking for cheating on me and losing the pendant."

He turned away from her stricken face, the pillow cool on his cheek. His wings still ached, and the unfairness of it bit at his gut. "I've got to get to the station."

"What? No! You need to stay here, your heart practically gave out!"

Alec ignored her, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pleasantly surprised when they took his weight and his vision remained steady.

"I need my shirt." He bent to rummage in the cupboard, ignoring the rattle of the curtain as it closed around them.

"Mr Hardy."

"Aye, that's me." He didn't look up until he'd dragged out the neat pile of jacket and shirt and socks. At least he still had his own trousers on beneath the gown.

"I'd like to run some more tests before you go." A doctor stood between him and the gap in the curtains, grim faced.

"I'm fine."

"You might feel fine, but that may well be temporary. I'm afraid you had a serious heart arrhythmia, and we need to find out if there's a structural issue or some other underlying problem."

Alec looked at Tess's pleading face then at the clothes in his hands. "I have to get back to work." Never mind that it had been nearing midnight when Tess rang, and hours must have passed since then - hours when he should have been looking for the pendant.

"This may well have been brought on by the stress of your work. Your wife told me how much pressure you've been under recently."

Alec scowled. "Oh aye, I bet she did." She at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"I really can't recommend that you leave."

"Well, I'm goin' anyway. I'll sign whatever you need."

He slid off the hospital gown, trying not to care that this absolute stranger was seeing his wings.

"I'll bring the forms. I highly recommend that you make an appointment with your GP as soon as possible to get this investigated in case it wasn't just a one off event."

Alec resisted the urge to look at Tess. Had it been a one off event? How many late nights at work had actually been with Dave? How many months?

"Mrs Hardy, I'd suggest you avoid strong negative emotions as much as possible. Pain can be a form of stress to the system, which means your soul link can have a negative impact." He smiled kindly. "I understand that might be difficult in your jobs, but do try."

She nodded. Alec was surprised she hadn't corrected her name or used the opportunity to berate him, but perhaps she was still feeling guilty.

He tucked his shirt in, sitting on the bed to pull on his socks.

"This might have been a one off but if you get any more symptoms come back immediately. No flying."

Alec snorted. "I don't fly."

"What, never?" The doctor seemed surprised.

"Never appealed."

"Well, that's your prerogative, but certainly don't take up lessons until you've had three months without any issues with your heart. I'd also recommend reducing your stress along with your alcohol and caffeine intake, just as a precaution."

"Aye, that'll happen." He tugged on his shoes. "What do I need to sign?"

*-*-*-*-*

They had to get a taxi home, as Tess had ridden in the ambulance with him. They sat in awkward silence the whole drive, twenty minutes in pre-dawn darkness and flickering sodium lights, before spilling out onto their driveway.

As they reached the door, Alec paused. "How much did Daisy see?"

"What? Nothing, she was fast asleep, even with the paramedics. I got Sarah over to keep an eye on her just in case she woke up, but she doesn't have a clue. We'll have to tell her this morning."

"No." Alec shook his head. "You can't tell her. Not yet."

"You can't be serious."

He stared at her, a desperate expression twisting his thin features in the twilight. "Tess, there's only three things in my life I care about and I might have lost two of them today. Don't make me risk losing Daisy as well."

He could see the question in her face.

"Daisy. The job. And you." He looked away, eyes suddenly burning as much as his wings.

She stared at him for a long moment, taking in the stubborn set of his jaw, before nodding. "You tell her when you want, then."

His gratitude was pathetic, he knew, but at least Daisy would be spared the worry.

*-*-*-*-*

Although Daisy was sent to stay with friends for the first few days of chaos, as often happened at the start of a case, Tess's panicked response to her loss of evidence didn't last long. Once hope began to fade at the lack of any CCTV or reasonable leads, she resumed relatively normal hours and their daughter returned home

For Hardy, the long hours trying to make up for the pendant took their toll. Sleep was the first thing to go as he worked feverishly over reams of interview notes and evidence photos, rapidly followed by shaving and then food, resigning himself to packets of crisps from the vending machine when the rumbling in his stomach drowned out his thoughts.

He made it home only occasionally to shower and change clothes, otherwise mostly napping on the sofa in his office. The thought of lying next to Tess made him queasy, though he knew eventually he'd have to confront it.

Late one afternoon, as his colleagues prepared to leave for the day, Tess knocked on his door. He waved her in and she closed it behind her.

"Alec. You look awful."

He knew he did. Dark circles under his eyes, unshaven, hair in need of a cut. Wings crammed into the tight binder, not that she could see, and staying at the station meant little chance to brush them or even just take off the damn thing.

"DS Henchard. Can I help you?"

She flinched. "Come home. You need to rest."

"I'll rest when I've got Lee Ashworth nailed." 'Again' was unspoken, though it hung heavy in the air.

"I'm worried about you!"

He pressed finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose.

"Come home."

"You don't want me there."

"Daisy does."

Alec paused for a long moment, then sighed, whole body drooping. "Give me a minute to finish up."

He fell asleep in the car on the way home, waking with a jolt as Tess turned off the engine. His heart pounded uncomfortably but his vision stayed clear as he stood, so he headed inside, calling for Daisy. His wings throbbed - clearly she wasn't happy to hear him - but not enough to really register after hours twisted into the harness.

"I'm upstairs!"

The stairs suddenly seemed all but insurmountable, his weariness a dragging anchor, but he gritted his teeth. One foot after the other, eight steps, pause on the landing, then the same count again.

He took another breather before knocking on Daisy's door.

"Come in." She didn't sound particularly welcoming.

"Hi, darling. How're you doing?"

She shrugged.

"How's school?"

"Fine, I guess."

He leant against the doorframe as his treacherous legs weakened.

"What's going on, Daiz? Talk to me."

"I know you're only here because Mum made you. Or because your stupid wings hurt."

"That's not fair. I wanted to talk to you, see how y'are."

"Oh yeah? Then why've I not seen you in a week? Mum's been here like a normal parent and you're not even sleeping here! You don't care about me, or Mum!"

"Work-"

"That's just an excuse!" She made a sound of pure frustration, stalking across the room. "Go away, Dad!" She stared at him, hands on her hips, stubborn chin tilted up at him. He could suddenly see so much of Tess in her that it hurt.

"Alright, I'm away. Love you." Head down, he pushed off from the door, not risking asking for a hug. The rejection would hurt too much.

He flinched as the door slammed shut behind him.

Alec was asleep when Tess came to bed, his wings sprawled across the mattress, chafed indentations and damaged feathers marking where the straps had held them tight. As she slid into bed, he rolled over, breaching the void between them as he unconsciously sought her out. She lay, hardly breathing, and finally curled on her side to tuck herself into the curve of his body. His arm wrapped around her waist and he held her close. She tried not to let her sobs disturb him.

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy woke to the feel of hands on his wings. He lay there for a moment, letting consciousness sink back in slowly.

"Tess?"

"Good morning."

"What're you doing?"

"They're a mess. It's embarrassing."

He was glad his face was still mashed into the pillow.

"I've been busy."

She didn't answer, hands working at the base of the wings, tugging and straightening. Despite his misgivings, Alec started to relax, only to be caught unawares as she plucked out a feather. "Careful!"

"It was loose."

He could feel his back tensing up, and forced himself to relax, taking deep breaths.

It wasn't a minute later before another pinch announced another prematurely lost feather, and he hauled his wings closed in a great sweep of air, twisting onto his back.

"What is this? You spend months avoiding touching my wings and now I've caught you cheating suddenly you want to help?" Tess looked stricken, but at the same time he'd definitely hit on some level of truth.

"They were such a mess, I just thought..."

"It's fine," he ground out. "Leave them alone, I'll sort them."

She rolled her eyes. "Alec bloody Hardy. Too proud to ask for help, too proud to even accept it when it's offered. You know what, you're so bloody perfect, you can deal with them yourself. I don't want to touch them anyway."

"Tess-"

She stalked from the room, head high. "Tess, please, I'm sorry!"

He slumped back against the pillows, wincing. He'd have to do something about them soon, perhaps Daisy wouldn't mind helping with a grooming for once - assuming she was talking to him.

Dragging himself out of bed Hardy stood in front of the full length mirror and spread his wings. They were bedraggled, feathers bent and occasionally broken, one or two of the long primaries snapped off and far more smaller ones missing. He was suddenly unpleasantly reminded of the state of his mother's wings in her last few months, and swallowed thickly.

It wasn't just his wings that were suffering; he could see his ribs, and the waistband of his pyjama trousers sat too low on his hips.

No time for self pity. There were more important things to worry about.

*-*-*-*-*

There was only so long he could sleep on the sofa at work. Once the rumors made their way round the station - it was him in the hotel, with Tess, with a man, with a prostitute; it was Tess with a suspect, with Dave, on her own getting drunk - he went home again.

He packed a bag, enough for a few weeks, and knocked on Daisy's door before he left. She didn't answer, though the steady throb in his wings and the fresh waves of pain as he spoke told him she was there.

"I love you, Daisy. Please don't hate me."

She didn't answer.

From his cheap hotel Hardy arranged a GP appointment, got pills to ease the worst of the arrhythmia symptoms, agreed to an angiogram. Took responsibility for himself, promising that Daisy wouldn't be left fatherless, even if he was at a distance. The stern words of the doctor about his risks and the likely need for an operation cemented his choice - Daisy couldn't know about her mother's adultery, not with the chance that any day his heart problem would get worse.

He didn't correct any of the rumours, refusing to discuss any of them. Eventually revelations were made to his team and to the press that confirmed enough to be damning, without condemning Tess. In public he took responsibility for the whole incident, though a select few officers including the chief superintendent, his friend and supporter through the very worst of it, knew the truth. Most counselled furiously against his decision, although one - a fellow DI long divorced from his wife, still in love with her despite everything, loyal to his kids to a fault - shook his hand and offered a knowing nod.

Tess seemed happier with him out of the house, but each time he called Daisy's mobile and the call went unanswered he would feel a fresh ache in his gut.

He'd meant to start wearing the tightest binder less, but the thought of not having his armour at the station - seeing Tess, seeing Dave - was abhorrent. Eventually he decided the damage was already done, and kept it on all day at work, though he was strict about releasing them every evening he sat alone in the hotel. The numbness that developed each day a few hours into wearing the binder brought a welcome deadening of the pain of the soul link, although as time went by the ache lessened. It made him feel guilty, that his love for Tess was waning, but when she wouldn't even speak to him outside of work it was hard to see beneath DS Henchard to the woman he'd married.

His wings were a mess under the tight material, he knew, but he couldn't bear to pay someone to fix them, though at least if he traveled to London there were plenty of places offering the service. The thought of some stranger doing something so intimate was just a cruelty too far.

In place of soft, gentle hands straightening feathers and easing out the dull, dead ones, he contorted himself in his hotel bed. Twisting his arm awkwardly behind him he was able to claw at the feathers lining the strong shoulder joints forming the base of his wings, yanking at anything loose and brushing at least the surface ones, if not the mess beneath. He tried not to think of the hours he and Tess had spent, naked, brushing his wings and laughing together.

*-*-*-*-*

He's drowning. His wings are heavy with river water, dragging him under, and the weight in his arms _don't look don't look_ is unbearable. He knows that's not how it happened - it was his coat, not his glossy, carefully oiled wings that had dragged him down, and the weight in his arms of her small, sodden body, but in this new reality his coat is gone, his shirt is gone, just his trousers and his impossibly heavy wings and the feel of her dead skin dragging against his bare chest.

As he staggers up the bank the water streams off his wings, but still they grow heavier and heavier until he's falling backwards, dragged back into the river and under, her tiny body an unmovable weight above him.

Hardy woke screaming, clawing at his chest and his back where the sensations lingered. Before he knew what he was doing, there was a handful of feathers on the bed and crushed in his fist, and a sharp high note of pain in his left wing.

He sobbed as his heart fluttered in his chest, a terrible empty agony where there should be a steady heartbeat, and somehow managed to choke down two of the pills, though the bitter chalk tasted of salt when he swept them off his palm.

Tess wasn't there, in his bed in the tiny two star hotel room, and for once he was grateful.

His sweat was river water and algae and death on his skin and in his wings, caught up amongst the barbs of his feathers. Once he could breathe, he threw himself in the shower and sat there, dragging his wings in with him, a sad huddled heap under the spray.

They weren't oiled - he'd hardly touched them in weeks - and they grew heavy with the water until he finally had to rest them on the side of the tub to stop them from tipping him backwards. It was dream made reality and it drew out a sob until he was crying so hard he could barely breathe, traitorous heart faltering.

When he climbed out, needing the support of both hands on the wall, the water had long run cold and he was shivering and blue in his nakedness. He squeezed his plumage in a double handed grip, trying to rid it of the worst of the water, but his wings were a heavy chill weight on his back, dragging at his hollow bones.

The stiff towel dried his body well enough but did little for the feathers, too long without waterproofing oil or even a decent grooming.

Hardy looked at the harness, grit his teeth and shouldered into it, holding it in place one handed as he tugged at his wings with the other, trying to arrange their heavy weight. When he pulled at the straps, water streamed down the back of his thighs. He tightened it again, yanking hard enough to hurt his hands on the grips, but still they didn't reach, wings swollen with too much liquid for them to compress against his body.

He swore, ripping it off so he could throw it across the room.

"Fuck!"

He kicked the bed, the wooden frame unmoving despite his effort.

"Fucking, fucking fuck!"

Suddenly the nagging exhaustion dogging his heels was overwhelming, never mind that it was the start of a new day and he should be going to the office to try and salvage the pitiful fragments of his career. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes, sodden wings a dead wet weight over his ribs as he spread them across the rough sheets. 


	3. Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very brief mention of feather pulling which could be considered self harming.

The phone rang three times before the tug in his wings let him know that she'd seen his name on the caller ID. He didn't really expect her to answer, but-

"What, dad?"

It was a relief to hear her voice, even if it was short and grumpy. Even if she hated him.

"Just wanted to call and see how y'are."

"I'm fine."

"Mum said you got in trouble in maths again." And his wings had told him too, the stinging at 11.15 that morning - the middle of the third lesson, too late for missed homework but just about right for talking back and being sent to the headteacher's office.

"So?"

"You can't keep doing this, Daiz."

"I hate school."

"What?"

"They're mean to me."

"Who is? I thought you had loads of friends."

There was suddenly a fresh ache in his wings. "They all say it's your fault the man that killed Pippa and Lisa got away with it."

"Oh, Daisy, love, please don't listen to them." Alec scrubbed a hand over his face.

There was a choked sound down the phone line. "Was it your fault, dad? They said you were - you were cheating on mum in a hotel, and that's how he got away. Is that why you left?"

Alec's stomach dropped. They'd agreed on a line: that they just didn't love each other any more, that Alec had left so she could stay with Tess, keep things as familiar as possible. He couldn't tell her the truth, not when his heart problem meant that he might keel over any day.

His long moment of panic stretched out until it was too late.

"I can't believe you'd do that to us! I hate you!"

The agony shot across his wings, an electric shock of pain, and she hung up.

Alone in his cramped hotel room, Alec buried his face in his hands and wept.

*-*-*-*-*

When he finally decided to leave, to hide Claire Ripley and take a new post in an old-new town, he found himself brushing up against the familiar at every turn. The beach; the cliffs; the harbour; a half remembered happiness and no soft weight on his shoulders.

His first few days in Broadchurch had been easy. Quiet. Godawful boring. Just what the doctor ordered. His room at the Traders was up too many flights of stairs and behind the gatekeeping of an awful gossip, but other than that he thought he could survive there, at least until his heart settled into a state that would permit the pacemaker. Then perhaps West Mercia and Sandbrook could be home again.

And then - Daniel Latimer. Danny.

Another child dead, another family destroyed.

As he walked across the familiar beach, the heavy weight of panic in his chest, he swore this would be different. This time, he would bring the family closure.

The mad woman in a grey suit stalking across the beach was the first indicator of the inexperience of the Broachchurch police force, the first suggestion that this might be just as much of an uphill slog as Sandbrook. "Get back behind the barrier!"

"Oh god no, no no no!"

Moving to intercept her, Hardy yelled furiously across the beach to the officers in hi-vis along the tape, "Don't let anyone through! Keep them back!"

She fumbled in her bag, handing him a warrant card. "I'm police - DS Ellie Miller."

Oh. Best shake hands then, not a good first impression on his part really. "Alec Hardy."

"I know. You got my job." Though the words were bitter, she was distracted by the small sad body behind him, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh god, I know him."

Of course she knew him, it was that sort of town.

Ellie Miller was an entirely different breed of officer, career minded but at the same time a compassionate, considerate soul, outwardly far too soft for the rigours of police work and particularly the sort of police work required after a child's murder. Had they met under different circumstances - no urgency of a high profile case throwing them together, him not scarred by the fallout of Sandbrook, her not furious at the theft of her job - he would have been dismissive, and doubted they would have spoken. In any other force he would have pushed for another partner, one who was less of his antithesis, but in Broadchurch she was the best there was, as much as that was worth.

Though their first meeting was inauspicious, it didn't take long - in hindsight it should have been even less time than it was, given her impeccable handling of Beth on the beach despite her own shock - for her to start earning his grudging respect. Even if in their first few days she'd seemed nothing but fluff and community spirit, her sharp lines of questioning in interviews and instinctive understanding of the subtle human motivations in the town proved invaluable. He regretted his initial prejudice, not least because it demonstrated unforgivably poor judgement, but Miller seemed more than capable of standing up for herself despite his opinions, so he tried not to feel too guilty about it.

*-*-*-*-*

He'd promised himself that he would stop wearing the tighter binder in Broadchurch, and for a week he'd kept his promise, until Danny Latimer brought the same attention he'd so desperately wanted to escape. He swore at least to wear it as little as possible, only for anything involving press, and somehow, despite a few moments of panic, managed to stick to it, changing in his office with the blinds pulled down.

The strangest experience was interviewing Mark Latimer. By that point he was half convinced the man had murdered his own son, and the loss of the tight binder as he sat through potentially the most important interview of the entire case made him feel insubstantial, as though a soft breeze might blow him away like a pile of dust. After they arrested Mark for obstruction of justice, Miller yelling at him in the corridor before stalking off, furious, Hardy fled to the bathroom, unable to face walking through the bullpen on unsteady legs to pick up the tighter harness.

Throwing himself in the stall, he locked the door with trembling hands and stripped off his jacket, throwing it over the hook on the back of the door. Untucking his shirt he shoved his hands beneath it, finding the ends of the straps and hauling them as tight as they would go until he could practically feel his ribs creaking and his feathers bending.

Fumbling at his jacket pocket he choked back two of the chalky pills without bothering with water and tried not to let the rising panic overwhelm him, the pressure at his ribs and back an uncomfortable but reassuring focal point for every breath.

He returned, calm and serene and ready to pick up with Miller where they left off, and no one noticed anything, though she gave him a quick assessing look that made him want to shift guiltily.

*-*-*-*-*

The hidden form fled down the hill, faster than Miller but not fast enough to escape Hardy's long legs, and he could see himself gaining until suddenly, as boats loomed around them, the strength was gone from his limbs and heart and replaced with empty agony.

He fell to his knees, hand pressed desperately to his chest as he cried out. He'd have called for Miller if he hadn't been so overwhelmed with the agony and terror.

He felt the moment she spotted him on the ground, the ache in his wings a sudden cruel counterpart to the pain in his chest, and when she dropped down beside him he clutched at her as though the warmth of her hand in his would make the pain stop.

When he woke in the hospital bed, the second thing he saw after the dull white ceiling was Miller's furious face.

He could feel his panic rising, a tense feeling in the back of his throat a tell tale sign of tears held at bay - how much did she see? Does she know? He wasn't in a fit state to read her, to calculate if she knew two of his secrets or if she only knew of the one in his chest.

If she knew about the wings, she didn't let on, and somehow he didn't think she'd have held anything back.

As she went to leave he wanted to sit up, to stop her, but his whole body was weak, and he could feel his wings swelling the edges of the flimsy hospital gown. He didn't have the muscle strength to hold them tight against his back, not after months of disuse and abuse, and if she didn't know he couldn't bear for her to find out like this, when he was so weak and they were just a sad crumpled mess. Instead he just called after her, voice as weak as his traitorous heart, and she didn't even bother slowing down.

Hardy felt a tear trickle down his cheek - a reaction to the adrenaline and the high dose of medication, no doubt, but shameful all the same. He dashed it away.

Somehow he hauled himself out of the bed, out of the room, out of the hospital, back to the office. Putting the binder on had been just another insult to his body, and as it closed on his aching wings he had closed his eyes in a silent prayer that he'd be able to see it through.

Later that day, once they'd made a modicum of progress, he found time to secret himself away into his office, blinds pulled shut, and fish his phone out of his pocket.

No messages. Not a text, never mind a missed call, not that he'd expected anything. He blinked down at it, trembling a little as he hovered over Daisy's name on the contact list, unsure if he could take the rejection of leaving another voicemail, but eventually pressed 'call', putting the phone to his ear as he closed his eyes and waited for the familiar sound of the voicemail.

"Hello?"

Hardy half jumped out of his skin at the sound of his daughter's voice, a background of voices and clatter making it hard to distinguish, and was suddenly almost dizzy with relief. "Daisy?"

"Dad?" Obviously she hadn't checked caller ID before answering.

"Hi darling."

"I have to go, I'm waiting for someone to ring me."

He covered his face with a shaking hand. Even her disinterested, dismissive tone was music to his ears after months without hearing a word from her. "I'll be quick, promise."

There was silence, but the background noise diminished a little.

"We've not talked in ages, and I really miss you. I know I'm a pain but I'd love to have a proper chat, maybe this weekend?" There was a choked sound from the other end of the line. "Daiz? Is everything... ok?"

"You know I'm not alright! You always do this, you always call when I'm sad, why can't I just be sad without you interfering!"

Hardy's heart sank in his chest, and he hoped fervently that it was only emotional, not another attack. "I promise it's not that, I just really missed you today."

Another choked sound, this one definitely a sob. "I miss you too, dad."

"Y' could... come and visit?" He held his breath.

"Mum wouldn't like it."

"I would. You could have a bit of a holiday?"

Somehow that was exactly the wrong thing to say. "I have school, dad! I've got so many exams, so much coursework, I can't just come down to Devon because you're bored and your case isn't working out! What's the problem this time, lost some evidence again?"

That was cruel, and they both knew it, deafening silence across the miles between them, until finally Daisy broke the impasse. "I have to go."

"I love you, Daisy. I promise. And I'm so sorry I can't be there for you right now, but I do really love you."

"Bye, Dad." The noise was back, and although he thought he heard 'I love you' he couldn't quite be sure.

Hardy put the phone down on the desk with impossible care and buried his head in his hands. Tears trickled over his palms, down his wrists, and after a long minute his aching shoulders began to heave with silent, anguished sobs.

*-*-*-*-*

It had been a cruel shock to find out that it was Joe who had killed Danny. For a while he'd thought it Tom, and Joe covering for his son, but in the end the evidence was damning. At least it hadn't been Tom, he supposed, though it was little consolation.

Sitting with Ellie to inform her had been... unpleasant.

It had taken a second for the news to sink in, but he felt the instant she truly understood what he'd said. As she started to fall apart in front of his eyes, the agony of the soul link radiated from scapula to wingtip and down the shaft of every single feather, a rippling sea of pain across the vast expanse of his wings, the binder concentrating it into mere inches along his back. Though he'd known it would be an awful moment, he hadn't anticipated the full strength of her emotional response; it wasn't just his growing love for her that brought the excruciating intensity of his agony, but the depths of her grief and fury at Joe's awful, awful act.

It was magnitudes worse than Tess confessing her loss of the pendant, and he'd had an idea it was coming, had pulled the trigger on himself without even considering that he should get someone else to do it and keep himself somewhere private to mute his reaction to the soul link. Instead, all he could do was support her in silence, trying desperately not to let on how much it hurt.

When she'd insisted on seeing Joe, he'd been in too much pain to react quickly to her attack, distracted by the resurgence of the torture as her emotional pain worsened, and he'd regretted his failing ever since.

It had taken hours for the worst of the pain to recede, and more than once he'd had to excuse himself to his office to pull down the blinds, lock the door, and rip off his shirt and the damned binder, shaking legs barely able to hold him up, heart pounding despite the double dose he'd taken to try and reduce his symptoms. He leant over the desk, resting on his forearms with his head low, taking deep breaths to try and steady himself, the odd breath coming out as a high whine between gritted teeth.

He thrust a hand out behind him and buried it deep in one wing, clenching it tight around a spray of feathers, pulling at them until the sharp burn focussed him enough that he could stand.

All he could think was _don't pass out, don't pass out_ \- if he ended up in hospital now Miller would have no one by her side in the aftermath, and that couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen.

Though his limbs were weak and his vision blurred, he held the press conference, held himself together, the severe binder tightened to its absolute limit; when at last he reached home and could finally stretch out his wings there was no strength left in him, and he had to let them drag, limp and tortured, on the ground.

*-*-*-*-*

The blue shack is so small he has to stretch one wing at a time, angling it on a diagonal. If he's going to stay, he needs somewhere bigger, somewhere he can spread them out across the floor and let them rest.

Joe is somehow, impossibly, found not guilty.

Alec leaves, heads back to West Mercia, though it doesn't feel like home any more. He's not sure if anywhere can feel like home, now.

Months pass.

Some things change, some things don't. His wings ache at night and he knows it's Ellie, letting herself cry into the darkness, and he wishes he could be there, even if it's just to bring her a cup of tea on the mornings after the hardest nights.

The ache doesn’t fade with time. He still loves her and she still mourns the version of Joe she thought she knew.

Daisy hurts too, now that she knows the truth, and she's acting out as much as she was before, complaining all the time about the difficulties of living with Tess. Hardy wishes he could give her an escape, but his temporary apartment isn't suitable for more than just him.

It's a late night text from Miller, when he knows she's almost certainly sobbing into her pillow but still wondering how he's doing, that makes him start checking the property websites for houses - _homes_ \- in Broadchurch.

*-*-*-*-*

Barreling down the hallway, a towel around his waist, Hardy rapped sharply on the bedroom door. "Are you up? I told you I've got to get in early."

"I'm awake!" It didn't sound like it, half muffled and slurred, but there were at least sounds of life behind the door.

"Twenty minutes or you're getting yourself in!"

An outraged yelp. "You said eight!"

"I said seven forty!"

Hardy grinned to himself as he left his daughter to her morning panic. They might occasionally have a strained relationship - particularly around anything relating to Tess or studying - but they were fumbling along alright, really. Her coming to stay for a week's trial run in his new house, even if he had to work some of the days, had been a wonderful idea.

He tugged on his trousers, and swore as he realised he'd run out of shirts, the stacked laundry basket in the corner of the room a silent condemnation. At least there should be some clean ones crumpled and dry in the kitchen, waiting a week to be ironed.

It didn't take long - he'd left the board out from last time, pretending that he'd get around to the task on Saturday before she arrived. Iron hot, couple of quick swipes over the cotton and it was respectable enough.

He heard the shower turn off and hurried down the corridor, shirt in hand, but had barely touched the door to his room when the bathroom door swung open.

There was a gasp as he slipped into his bedroom, and he called back an apology - poor Daisy would be scarred for life, seeing her scraggy old dad without a top on.

Before he could pick up the binder there was a tentative knock at the door, barely there. "I've only got my trousers on, come in at your own risk!"

It swung open to reveal Daisy, clad in her dressing gown with a towel peeking underneath at her knees, hair tucked up in another towel, and his amusement dropped off his face at her expression. "Dad?" Her voice was tremulous, quiet. "Dad, what happened to your wings?"

His stomach dropped, a sudden surge of guilty fear. He'd forgotten. This new life had been too easy, too natural, and he'd forgotten that the dregs of his old neglect still lingered despite his best efforts to fix them.

"I-"

He couldn't. Couldn't tell her about the wreck his life had been, abandoned by his wife and his daughter, fearful of everything falling apart at work, desperately hoping to numb the soul link ache in his wings. The binder, too tight but not enough to keep him from panic; the late nights and early mornings and nightmares.

There was a familiar tightness in his chest, a tension in his throat, and he swallowed heavily, trying to breathe through the rapidly rising heart rate.

She stepped forward, breaking the tableau, and in a sudden instinctive burst of insecurity and self-preservation he threw himself backwards until he could feel the steady solidity of the wall against his back, his wings, holding him up despite his trembling.

Daisy looked terrified, wide eyed and pale with water still glistening on her calves, torn between wanting to comfort him and not wanting to come any closer. "Dad?"

He turned his head away from her searching gaze but didn't move. All he could think of was the state of the wings behind him, torn and wrecked, ugly red bald patches where the binder had rubbed through, and a fresh ache building in them at her disgust.

One hand tentatively outstretched, Daisy shuffled closer, and he closed his eyes against her.

"Oh my god." She was close enough to get a good look, close enough to see all the broken feathers and tangled mats, almost close enough to touch his trembling body.

"Just... go get dressed. It's fine. I just need a moult and they'll be fine."

"It's not fine! They look..."

Awful. Ugly. Embarrassing.

"...they look so _painful_."

There was suddenly a hand on his wing, gentle on the sore and sensitive feathers, and he couldn't help but flinch, opening his eyes to see her soft wounded face before looking away.

"It's not so bad," he protested, but his voice cracked on the lie.

"What can I do?" The sudden determination almost dragged a smile from him, and he shook his head wordlessly as she stroked soothingly over a sad patch of feathers, a delicate movement at odds with the intensity of her words. "I mean it! I want to help."

Hardy opened his mouth, thought a minute, closed it again. Eventually he looked back up at her, and all his clenched fists and nervous swallowing couldn't keep the tears from overflowing as he whispered, "It's going to hurt."

"Oh _Dad_ ," and then Daisy was crying too, and her slim arms were around his shoulders, tugging him down into a hug as he sobbed into her warm shoulder.

They stood for a long few minutes until Hardy's shoulders stopped shaking and he pulled back, too worn out to be embarrassed. "Good thing you were soggy already."

That earned him a half laugh. "My hair's going to dry funny."

"Go dry it, get dressed." He interrupted her protests. "I'll still be here. You can help me after."

Ten minutes later - unusually quick for the teenager - a freshly dressed and blow-dried Daisy found him settled in the kitchen, draped still shirtless over a chair and leaning on the backrest. His wings drooped, broken feathers trailing unevenly on the ground.

"I remember when we used to do this. Every Saturday, then we'd have a takeaway."

Hardy smiled into his folded arms. "You were always very gentle."

"Mum wasn't."

"She always tried, darlin'." He sighed. "You're just going to have to pull out the worst of it, all the twisted bits underneath."

"That's... so much of it. I can't!"

"Don't think there's much we can do when it's like this. Just need to get rid of it and wait for it to grow back neat."

"Wait. I've got an idea."

Daisy vanished, returning with a pink spray bottle, which she brandished triumphantly. "Spray in conditioner!" Hardy eyed it dubiously but eventually nodded.

Work and Daisy's carefully planned day trip were long forgotten, but some time later after much flinching, careful teasing apart of feathers, and about half the bottle of conditioner, Daisy stood back.

"It looks much better!"

Hardy licked his lower lip, where he'd bitten it through trying to stop from crying out and blood still beaded, before turning and trying to look, tilting the dark wings this way and that. There was a small pile of broken tips on the floor, but nowhere near as many as he'd expected. "Feels much better too. You're a wonder, Daiz."

Her face twisted awkwardly. "They're still not going to look great, they're pretty messed up. Loads missing."

"I know. They'll grow back, it'll just take time."


	4. Partner

_Won't be in today. Do the interview without me._

Short and sharp and to the point.

_What's wrong? Hope you're ok_ , she texted back.

_Maybe flu. Back tomorrow._

_I'll bring you some food. Maybe a scotch egg lol._

It was twenty minutes of checking her phone anxiously before he responded.

_I'm fine. See you tomorrow._

Alec Hardy taking a day off ill. He must be in a right state.

She pulled up the notes for the interview, mind half elsewhere. With Daisy back with Tess for a week, he'd be all alone, no doubt. He'd been a right miserable git the last two weeks, even more cranky and short tempered than usual; hopefully a day off would do him good. She could pop over at lunch.

*-*-*-*-*

Not wanting to disturb him if he was sleeping, she slid her key carefully into the lock without knocking, pressing it open slowly and closing it behind her.

There was something on the floor, long brown tufts scattered down the hall, not the usual pristine space. Key shoved in her pocket, Tesco carrier bag stealthily placed on the floor, Ellie crept forward on full alert. "Sir? Hardy?"

The response came from the living room - " _Wait!_ " - and her worry for him was so suddenly overwhelming that she pushed the door open before she had a second to think.

"Oh my god you're topless." Ellie covered her eyes with one hand, flapping the other frantically at Hardy as she turned away. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry!"

She'd barely caught a glimpse of him, rising from the sofa in a thunderous cloud, broad dark haired chest marked with a pink scar - _the_ scar, the important one - but the expression on his face was something awful. And-

"Get _out_ , Miller!"

"I'm not looking, I'm not looking!" She stumbled blindly towards the door, hand out, staggered through it and slammed it behind her.

All she could hear through the door was swearing.

Fucking _wings_ , the stupid, sneaky, secretive bastard.

Breathing hard, she looked down the hall again, leaning down to reach a gentle finger out to one curled dark twist, half the length of her forearm. The brown tufts - feathers. _His_ feathers.

"Sir?"

"Wait there! Don't move a bloody inch, Miller!"

When Hardy swung open the door, she was still there, frozen, torn between running away and confronting him. He'd pulled on a jumper, something soft and woven that had to have been a gift, and somehow the huge wings were hidden.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think-"

"Course you didn't bloody think! You _never_ bloody think!" His face was furious, but behind his mask she could see fear; terror in the whites of his eyes. "How dare you come into my house, don't even bother to announce yourself-"

"You gave me a key, I thought you were sick! Not-" she shook her head and gestured helplessly at the mass of feathers that tumbled over the sofa, the floor. "Not _moulting_. You should have told me! God, how many more secrets do you have?"

Ellie turned away, an aching disappointment sitting heavy in her stomach. Somehow she'd rendered him speechless. "I brought you food. I'll see you tomorrow."

The front door was half open under her grasp before he spoke. "I'm sorry."

Her turn to be speechless. She gaped at him.

"I don't think you've ever said that to me before."

His face twisted and she hurried to cover up her mistake, a stupid untrue joke he didn’t deserve. "Sorry. Didn't mean that. Forget I said it. Forget - all of this. I shouldn't have barged in."

"Miller. _Ellie_." He dragged the words out as though they hurt. "I can't - I need -" He made an anguished sound, scrubbing his face with both hands. Deep breath. "I need help. I can't do it myself. Tess used to do it, and Daisy but she's away because I got the date wrong and I've tried, but -"

She shut the door slowly, but didn't move away from it, needing its solid presence at her back. "I've never touched someone's wings before. I don't know what to do."

"It's not hard, if you can reach." And he couldn't, not really, not well enough to do a decent job of it.

"Oi, I've told you I'm a perfectly average height, it's you that's too tall for your own good."

"That's not..." _what I meant_ , but of course she knew that, and he trailed off, letting her pathetic effort at humour soothe the sharp awkwardness between them.

"Of course I'll help." She couldn't quite believe he needed to ask.

He knelt on the sofa facing the wall, long legs tucked up beneath him, head down and hands in his lap.

"Your top..." Ellie was hesitant, not wanting to make him feel any more naked than the revelation of his secret had already done.

"I _know_!" He took a heaving breath and with a single smooth movement yanked off his jumper, leaving his hair a riotous mess. His wings were released, folding out smoothly, impossibly huge, and she couldn't help but gasp.

They were scruffy, dull; stray feathers stood out at angles; one was caught in his jumper and tumbled slowly to the ground as he clutched the soft material to his chest.

"I was going to show them to you, just - not yet." He looked over his shoulder at her, his face a caricature of misery. "I let them get bad after Sandbrook and I thought a proper moult would help. I wanted you to see them when they were - good. Not like this."

"Oh, Alec, no, they're gorgeous."

He looked away, shaking his head. "They're an embarrassment."

A sudden flash of fury so strong that Ellie rocked back on her heels. "Did Tess say that?"

He didn't speak.

"Jesus, she's a bitch."

"Miller..."

"No, don't 'Miller' me-"

He twisted round again. "Please don't, not today."

She folded her arms firmly across her chest, chin defiantly high, though eventually forced out a sharp nod, fury temporarily banked. "Next time I see her I can't be held responsible for my actions. Now what can I do?"

"By my back. The really loose ones, just - pull."

"Won't it hurt?"

"Not if you're careful."

Ellie reached out slowly, resting her hand gently on the surface of one sad wing. "It's so soft!" He curled tighter around the bundled jumper still clutched in his arms, shoulders rounding. "Are you sure-"

"Just get on wi' it, Miller!"

She snatched her hand back, nerves strung too taut for the sharp tone in his voice. "Don't shout at me!"

"Sorry. Sorry." He shook his head, and tried to be patient, tried to breathe deeply and focus on the fact that this was Ellie, not Tess, and she would be careful, not cruel.

She touched a curled, duller feather with a fingertip, then pinched her thumb against it at the tip. Holding her breath she eased back gently, and it came away in her hand. Hardy didn't move. After a moment of indecision she tucked it surreptitiously in her pocket.

Another, then. Still gentle, only taking the ones that were obviously awry, and at any slight resistance she let go, though she could see the ripple of tension in his skin at the most miniscule tug.

It seemed rude to just drop them on the floor, though it looked like that was what he'd been doing, so she piled them up next to him on the sofa.

After a few minutes his shoulders uncurled a little, the tension in the long muscles of his back starting to unwind.

A few more, and his arms loosened around the jumper, letting it drop into his lap.

She'd cleared most of the ones she was sure about, at least in the area closest to his back, and in a few places had run her fingers along firmly placed feathers that were just untidy, pulling together the gaps until each one lay in a single neat strip. His back looked much neater than the remainder of his wings, though at first it had looked far worse.

"Alec?"

"Mm?" He seemed half asleep.

"Should I do the rest?"

He hummed something that sounded like 'yes please' twisted through drowsy lips. One hand on the ridge of muscles and bone along the top of the wing, Ellie moved out further, marveling at the expanse of feathers. She reached a joint, a mound of bone under her fingertips, and cupped a hand around the curve of it. He moved a little at the pressure, the joint shifting under her palm, a smooth slide of bone and muscle, and her gut twisted at the faith her strange, sad partner was putting in her.

Eventually, there were no more loose curled wisps, no more breaks in the elegant pattern. Ellie was loathe to stop touching the soft feathers, particularly now they looked so much healthier, but without having a purpose to her touches she was suddenly very aware of the intimacy of the situation.

She stepped away with a cheerful "All done!", but the dark head didn't move from the back of the sofa where it rested on his folded forearms.

'Sir' seemed wrong, as did 'Hardy'. "Alec?"

He stirred, half opening his eyes, and she huffed out a little sigh of relief. After the operation she knew he was fine, but the memory of the fear she'd felt when he collapsed would probably never really vanish.

Wings folded down neatly against his shoulders as he stumbled to his feet, blinking hard.

"Thanks, Miller. 'ppreciate it." He looked away, not wanting to make eye contact. "Y' can't tell anyone about this."

But they're so beautiful, Ellie thought. Why are you always hiding the best parts of yourself?

" _Miller_." He met her gaze, dark and intense.

"Alright, fine! I won't tell anyone." Just like I didn't tell anyone about that time you looked after Fred when I was sick, and that time you cried after Daisy yelled at you.

"Right. Thank you."

The atmosphere was suddenly awkward, both of them very conscious of Hardy's bare chest, and Ellie backed away, trying not to think of anything that might bring a flush to her cheeks. "I'll... I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Aye."

He saw her out, closing the door softly behind her, and before the gap closed she saw him looking with interest at the Tesco bag on the floor. Good. At least he might eat something.

*-*-*-*-*

"Morning sir! Feeling better?" Ellie grinned at him brightly

She got a half grunt back, which was about what she'd expected and not unusual for Hardy. Would have been nice to get a smile, or at least a 'good morning Miller', but at least he seemed to be the same person as he ever was.

Her research had dragged on late, and racing thoughts and nerves at seeing him again had kept her up half the night and woken her early, but despite her tiredness it didn't seem sensible to fuel nervy shaky hands with coffee. Tea it was, and she'd just have to hope there weren't any dull meetings to be had.

After a quiet few hours, during which Hardy had emerged for little more than tea and toast, she took a deep breath. She'd meant to open Danny's file - revisit some of the worst weeks of her life - but she hadn't quite been able to bear re-reading it just to sate her own curiosity. Instead, she flicked through their database, settling on an assault case, a young boy sent to hospital by his older brother, not for the first time, for having the audacity to borrow his games console.

Five minutes. Easy. Except the young boy was just a little older than Fred, and she couldn't help but compare her grumpy but loving older son to the troubled assailant.

As she read, her eyes steadily filled with tears, though she blinked them away before they could fall. The last thirty seconds she didn't take anything in, flicking between case notes and the clock counting down the seconds, and at five minutes on the dot she heaved a sigh of relief and closed the file.

Grabbing her mug of tea, she took a deep gulp to disguise her glance at Hardy, still ensconced in his office, though everyone else had left for lunch.

Nothing. Still reading, still scowling away at the paperwork as though it'd done him some personal wrong, no sign of discomfort or querying looks, certainly no sign of getting up to come and ask her what was wrong.

So much for her theory, then.

It was disappointing enough that she felt the sudden urge to leave the dreary grey bullpen and find somewhere with a bit of daylight, but a stroll around the overcast harbour with an umbrella would have to do.

Ellie returned half an hour later with a fresh head and damp shoes, having given herself a good talking-to as she marched round the harbour and inhaled a Cornish pasty. It was only once she sat down at her desk that she noticed a KitKat sat next to her mouse.

Surely it hadn't been him.

But there hadn't been anyone else.

Katy, perhaps? She'd spotted her on her walk, maybe she'd been close enough to spot the slight redness of her eyes. But no, she didn't seem the sort to just silently slide chocolate onto desks, she'd definitely make a bigger deal of it.

And thinking about it, it wasn't the first time chocolate had turned up at her desk on a bad day.

Sneaky sod. Three years he'd been hiding heart conditions and wings and a kind soul underneath as well, though she'd at least had her suspicions about the latter.

Ellie looked up to see Hardy still deeply immersed in files, as though he hadn't moved an inch since she left, but under the frown she thought she saw a slight softening of the lines around his eyes.

Suddenly feeling guilty at potentially having caused him pain, she looked away. What did it matter, anyway, whether he loved her enough that he'd feel her sadness in his wings?

*-*-*-*-*

A week later, they'd still not spoken a single word about what had transpired at his home. She'd tried once, opening her mouth and hovering awkwardly, but he'd dismissed her as though he knew exactly what she was about to say and didn't want to hear a word of it.

Waiting until the office had quietened for the evening, one or two people still about but most with their minds on home, Ellie rummaged in her desk drawer for a small parcel.

Simply wrapped, plain gold paper left over from Christmas but not overly seasonal, it was heavy and only just small enough to hold one handed, and she almost fumbled it as she nudged the door half closed behind her.

"Help you, Miller?"

He looked up at her with a face that looked healthier than it had done last week, less lined with stress and fatigue.

She held out the wrapped gift. "Here."

Alec looked at her warily, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Not my birthday, is it?"

No, not that he'd been particularly forthcoming about that either.

"Do I need a reason to give you a present?"

"Well-"

She scowled. "Just take it for fuck's sake."

He didn't reach out a hand so she dumped it on the desk, on top of the files he'd been reading so he had no choice but to touch it if he wanted to keep working. He stared down at it as though it might start ticking suspiciously at any minute, but she folded her arms and didn't budge.

Uncertain but resigned, he picked it up and tore it open with fingers made clumsy with tiredness, folding back the sellotaped edges with care. Once the wrapping was free to fall away into his lap, he stared down at the jar, elegant old fashioned white writing on a black background. He read it twice. Swallowed; blinked. Eventually looked up at her with wide eyes. "This is... expensive stuff, Miller."

Hargreaves feather oil. Best brand in the country. And it wasn't a small jar, either, it must have set her back the best part of two hundred quid.

"Yeah, well, I wanted you to have something nice."

Eyes still wide, Hardy unscrewed the lid and held the jar under his nose to take a deep breath of the silky oil inside. "Wow." A sweet shy smile crept across his face, and dark eyes flickered up to meet her own. "It smells - amazing."

He carefully put it down on his desk and regarded her levelly, a steady moment of contemplation before saying softly, "Thank you."

She tried desperately to keep back the blush that threatened her cheeks at the warmth in his voice. "Any time, sir."

There was silence for a long moment before she turned to go.

"Miller - Ellie." His voice was as good as a hand on her wrist, halting her and pulling her back to him. "D'you... want to go to the pub?"

A wide smile crept across her face, and she didn't try to hide it from him. "I'd love to."

*-*-*-*-*

They'd hit the beach early one glorious summer day, beating the crowds of tourists, armed with books and suncream and snacks.

With his now healthy wings, he'd forgone the binder, the summer heat too much to bother adding another layer to loose shorts and t-shirt. There was strength back in them now, he could keep them tight enough to risk just clothing, and somehow the thought of people knowing wasn't quite such an awful one. Half the country knew the rest of his secrets, what was one more?

He sat for a long while, long pale legs stuck out in front of him as he watched the three kids playing with Miller in the surf, Tom picking Fred up and throwing him in the waves as the young boy screamed and giggled, chasing after his brother to be picked up again. They were all in summer wear, shorts and t-shirts, and Daisy had to his horror stripped off to a bikini top. She was half Scottish too, with all the resistance to cold that brought; summer in Broadchurch may as well have been Spain to her. She'd rolled her eyes at him. "Don't worry dad, I'm not expecting you to take your top off."

Their laughter carried on the breeze and the rush of affection he felt dragged him to his feet.

In a sudden resolute moment he grabbed his t-shirt and flung it aside. It landed half on top of Miller's practical backpack, filled with crisps and sandwiches and twenty quid of ice cream money, but he wasn't there to see it, already halfway down the beach towards his shrieking laughing family, wings close to his back but the long tips still trailing behind him.

A few people stared - there hadn't been anyone with wings in Broadchurch since Kel Williams left for university, and most of them knew Hardy from the papers if nothing else - but soon turned away, back to their sandcastles.

The first step into the water was icy, and he gasped with it, but the tang of salt and the pulse of the waves meant memories of Sandbrook were far from his mind. He kept his wings up out of the way at first, but as the water deepened he dropped them enough that at least the long primaries went under, warped and refracted by the water as he waded out far enough for the chill waves to reach his thighs.

Fred was the first to spot him, calling his name with glee, and the rest turned as one to see him.

"Thought I'd join in," he shrugged, awkward at the attention, suddenly wanting to cover the pacemaker scar and his wings, resisting the temptation to do either.

"Course you can." Ellie was the first to speak, smiling at him with undisguised affection and pride. She staggered through the waves to come close enough to kiss him on his freckled cheek and stroke a gentle hand over glossy perfect feathers. "Well done, love. I'm so proud of you."

"Alec! Throw me!" Fred was oblivious to Hardy's nerves, oblivious to his trepidation, just happy he had another launch pad.

"C'mere then, Fred, let's see how high I can throw you."

Once the boy was thoroughly drenched, half dizzy from hysterical laughter, Ellie called an end to the games, announcing it was time for lunch.

Daisy reached the shore first, long Hardy legs driving her through the surf as the rest lagged behind. Tom and Alec reached the sand next and the sideways look the teenager gave him spoke of competition - for once, Hardy took the bait, lunging through the sand, kicking up great puffs of it with damp feet, triumphantly beating Tom to their belongings by perhaps a foot, though he was panting harder than he should be as he threw himself to the finish line.

"This is a prime spot, I'm not leaving it just to take you to hospital if you keel over," Ellie threatened from further down the beach, carrying a squirming Fred over one shoulder, but as she came close enough to scowl down at him he held out a hand and pulled her down beside him.

Collapsed on the sand, happy laughter ringing in his ears, he realised that for the first time in a very long time the only feeling in his wings was the heat of the sun, the press of the warm ground and the caress of the sea breeze. 


End file.
